


A Taste of the Cask (A Tetralogy)

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-29
Updated: 2005-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos killed himself off to get a new identity.  Duncan is biding his time to do the same.  In the meantime, however, he falls into a new romance.<br/>~~~</p><p>I attempted to write this in the form of a tetralogy. Four voices: Duncan, Jim Ellison, Methos, Blair that were all about the single story line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you: To Chris for asking for a Duncan/Blair story and for the beta; to knoteach for the beta and TS information, and also to shadde7, Anna U., and SciFiCatGirl for TS information. Everyone was very helpful in answering my sometimes odd questions, and any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

Car accident? Drowning? Gunshot to the chest?

No, a suicide would hold up his estate in the courts for too long.

Laying the problem aside for a moment, Duncan MacLeod reached for a finger-sandwich. It was very good, so he reached for another. He needed to fortify himself, after all, so he could withstand the party, and think up a good way to kill himself off.

Still munching on a sandwich and considering the merits of choking to death on party appetizers, he started to pluck up another when a voice cut through his musings.

"Professor? Professor MacLeod?"

Duncan turned to find a bright-eyed man staring at him with surprise and delight. "Yes," he said, taking only a moment to remember, and then smiling. "Blair Sandburg." The man in front of him hadn't changed much in the intervening years. His smile was still quirkily attractive, and his hair was still an expression of self.

"Wow. It's great to see you again, Professor!" Blair held out a hand and Duncan shook it. "And you remember me!"

"It's just Duncan now; we aren't in class. And how could I forget a student like you?" Duncan grinned. "You were late every day, and you had more questions and theories than a forest of sticks could be shaken at."

Blair grinned back. "Yeah, but that was over five years ago." He shook his head. "And I didn't mean to be late. I was just always driving down from Cascade, you know? But, man, that was a great class. It was worth the drive. You knew history like you'd actually been there watching it."

Duncan coughed into his napkin. "Yes, well…so what are you doing now? You must have finished your degree by now."

Blair's color became reddish by a very slight amount. "Actually, I switched degree programs. I work for the police now, in their forensic lab." His eyes shone with enthusiasm, and Duncan remembered very clearly why he had always liked this young man. He'd been late to class, but when he was there, his attention was absolute. It had never felt forced, either, but genuine, and Duncan had wished that he could have spent time with Blair outside their student-teacher relationship.

"I work in the biology section mainly, since my specialization is in anthropology. I go to crime scenes, especially the ones with recovered remains," Blair continued. He waved a hand. "Lots of times they aren't even criminal acts. People get lost in the woods, or have a hunting accident. People drink, people hunt, people shoot each other in the chest. People step in holes, or fall off of the mountain ridge. The bodies stay out and rot all winter and spring, and it isn't until the next hunting season that they're found. Usually the animals have gotten to them. It's really interesting to look at the marks on the bones. If the bones are in good condition, sometimes I can tell what kind of animal made them."

"You sound happy," Duncan told him. He hadn't wanted to come to the party, except his friends had insisted he needed to get out of his home for an evening, and he hadn't been able to come up with a good enough excuse. But he was glad he'd come now. He'd always liked Blair, and finding him content and still as exuberant as he remembered made Duncan glad.

"Oh, yeah," Blair said, nodding. "It's a great job. Keeps me busy, though." He smiled, and it was tinged with wry amusement. "People are always finding bones in the woods, and I'm always going out there and usually its just chicken bones someone has dumped."

Duncan laughed.

"Oh," Blair said, looking past Duncan. "Be right back."

Duncan smiled as he watched Blair leave to go talk to a tall man with a military-style haircut and a bulky upper body that was all muscle. Cop, Duncan decided. He turned back to the snack table, but found he wasn't all that hungry. He refilled his wine glass and turned to survey the room. What he needed was a quiet place to blend into, where no one would bother him until he could politely leave. He spotted an empty chair near the staircase and dropped into it before anyone started talking to him again.

The wine was making him sleepy, he realized. And horny. He squirmed in his seat for a moment. It had been only a little over three months since Adam Pierson had died, but his libido was becoming more insistent with every passing day. He very much wished that he and Methos had found a way to get killed off together, but circumstances had been too complicated. Now Duncan was left to publicly mourn a dead lover and secretly spend his days and nights sexually frustrated.

He watched Blair talking to his cop-friend across the room and his groin responded with another flush of heat. He took a sip of wine and tried to think of baseball. It didn't work. A moment later he found that he was once again looking at Blair's backside and thinking that denim was altogether too thick a fabric.

One more night, minimum, he promised himself. By tomorrow, he'd find a way to knock himself off.

He'd promised Methos that he'd wait a while before he met with an untimely accident, and Methos had raised his eyebrows like he always did when he left things to Duncan's discretion but didn't trust him. Duncan sipped his wine again and tried not to think about Methos half a world away. He closed his eyes and could remember the way Methos tasted when he licked up the column of that fine, long neck.

Duncan opened his eyes and took a big gulp of his wine.

Think about what you're supposed to be doing, he admonished himself. He needed to think of a good way to die so he could go join Methos and get some damned relief.

It was time, after all. Their personas could only take so many years before people started to notice that they were aging extraordinarily gracefully. Duncan glanced back across the room, noting how close Blair was standing to his friend, how intimate their conversation seemed, and thought about Blair. When Duncan had first seen him in class, Blair had been so very young. Now he seemed more mature. There were only a few more laugh lines to his face, a few other indefinable changes marking him as older, but he carried himself with a different poise now. Like he'd been through the wringer and walked out the other side. Ah, Duncan thought, what a difference a few years made.

As if sensing that he was the object of attention, Blair turned and looked straight at Duncan. His eyes weren't quite as bright as before, and Duncan wondered what his friend had said to cause the change. Blair made his way over to Duncan, stopping only to grab a bottle of wine and a glass.

"Need a fill up?" he asked, standing in front of Duncan and looking down, wiggling the bottle.

Dutifully, Duncan held out his glass.

Blair knelt down next to him on the floor. He covered Duncan's free hand with his own and the look on his face was a combination of earnestness and guilt. "I just wanted to say I was sorry. About before. I…I didn't know."

Duncan frowned. "What are you talking about?" He stared down at Blair's hand covering his own. It felt comfortable and warm. Already a fine thread of warmth was coursing from that point of contact through his nerves and muscles and straight to his groin. By dawn, he vowed, he'd get himself killed, and go find Methos, and make love to him until neither of them could walk.

Blair's look transformed all the way into guilt. "Before," he practically whispered. "I didn't know your partner had…had died."

Duncan sat straight up, losing contact with Blair. The warmth vanished as he gulped air and tried not to laugh. Oh, no, oh, boy. He transformed the laugh into a half-sob and covered his eyes. Oh, shit. He should have remembered Methos' fake death! He'd died in a tragic hiking accident, having fallen into a ravine with a swift flowing and deep stream at the bottom, and by the time anyone had been able to get to the area, the body was gone and never recovered. Well, except for a few bits of bloody cloth that later were found with probable animal teeth marks on them. Duncan rubbed his face, remembering how carefully they'd planned the entire thing; a nice public death in a nice out of the way place.

"Professor…."

"Duncan, please." Duncan gained control of his face and looked at Blair. "It was an accident. You didn't upset me."

Blair nodded, still solemn, and his eyes full of barely concealed guilt. "Jim said it hasn't been very long. You must miss him."

"I do." Duncan nodded, and that warm feeling came back as he thought about Methos. A naked Methos. In the tub. No…the shower. In the shower, and Duncan would find his skin half soaped and slippery and…. He took a long sip of wine. "I miss him," Duncan said, then changed the subject. "Jim?"

Blair motioned with the bottle of wine. "Jim. My partner." He grinned. "My work partner," he clarified.

"Not…."

"No," Blair admitted. "We've got a different kind of relationship. Close. Special. But not like that." He looked to the ground, and rolled the bottle around in his hand a little. "I…ah…nobody knew when you were teaching that you…."

"Well, I was the teacher after all." Duncan took the wine bottle from Blair, their fingers touching briefly. Their eyes met, and a tentative smile touched Blair's face.

"Yeah. I had such a crush on you," he admitted, and laughed, leaning away, putting distance between them and the subject.

"I'm not your teacher anymore," Duncan said, and caught Blair's gaze.

"No," Blair whispered. "You aren't." He grabbed back the bottle of wine and took a gulp, eschewing the wine glass altogether. When he looked back to Duncan, his face was slightly flushed. "I'm not a student anymore, either."

Duncan took the bottle from Blair's fingers. "Liquid courage?" He smiled at Blair to soften the rebuke, then stood and looked for his hosts. He'd make his excuses and go home. At least there, he could openly fantasize about Methos. And maybe a little fantasy about Blair, too.

Blair put a hand on his elbow and Duncan paused. Again, the touch brought warmth, and it flowed straight to his insides, filling him up with desire and need. "Blair, this isn't--"

Blair cocked his head slightly and licked his lips. "Probably this is a bad idea for a whole bunch of reasons." Then he took back the bottle of wine. "But if I've learned anything," he whispered close to Duncan's ear, "it is to take opportunities while one may. Life is too short."

"Blair…."

Blair arched an eyebrow and took a swig from the bottle. "I'm going to grab another bottle of wine. Then I'm going upstairs."

Duncan stood as if rooted to the spot. He watched Blair confiscate another bottle of wine and saunter upstairs, and he felt the vibrancy of the party swallow him up, the other guests swirling around him. Methos' absence trilled keenly inside him, a hollow space that demanded to be filled up, and the chatter of a thousand party guests would only vanish into that emptiness. Upstairs, someone was waiting for him. Someone he knew, and liked. And wanted.

Slowly, Duncan pilfered yet another bottle of wine. Liquid courage it was to be. Methodically, he climbed the stairs until the second floor opened up, empty of people, save for one. He found the room and closed the door behind him.

Blair was sprawled on the bed, hands behind his head and arms akimbo. He looked up as Duncan entered and gave a welcoming smile.

Duncan put the wine aside, and crawled onto the bed. The loneliness inside him burned like a molten sea, and all his limbs were fevered with it. He touched his lips to Blair's, and they were cool and soft. Blair breathed into him, filling his sense with the aroma of fine wine, dizzying him. They kissed deeply, Duncan spilling out his sudden-grown need and Blair responding like a heat-sink, taking and absorbing; yielding until finally they broke apart.

They stared at each other for a moment.

Blair touched his lips with his fingers, then reached out to touch Duncan's lips. Duncan licked his fingertips, tasted wine, and a hunger he hadn't quite understood pulsed inside him. Blair made a moaning noise, more guttural than language, and the heat of it struck through Duncan. He pounced, pinning Blair beneath him on the bed and looked into his face, which only mirrored his own desires, before biting lightly at that delicious throat.

Blair responded with short staccato busts of encouragement, his hands flying over Duncan's back and shoulders, gripping and holding, kneading and pushing, and always rubbing. Duncan's entire existence became an endless friction on every point of his skin, and the filling of all the gaping-empty voids within him as he gratefully followed Blair through this new endeavor of theirs, never stopping until both of them ran to the end of their tethers, and curled up beside each other, exhausted.

They woke sometime in the night. Duncan reached over for the wine, which they drank while they talked the rest of the night away, hop-scotching from topic to topic. It wasn't until the faintest, grey threads of light flowed into the room that they fell silent.

Blair studied the window, an unfathomable look on his face. "So what happens now?"

"Now," Duncan told him, and playfully ruffled the crazy hair of his new lover, "we leave a note of thanks and humble apology to our hosts, and go find somewhere serving breakfast. Then, we order coffee and oatmeal and talk."

Blair opened his mouth to speak, but Duncan covered it quickly with his hand. "Talk about this. Us. Whatever we need to talk about." He grinned. "I have every faith one of us will figure something out."

Blair nodded, and when Duncan removed his hand, whispered, "I'm ordering pancakes." Duncan stifled his laughter as they dressed and went out into the early morning light. Duncan touched his chest above his heart, where Methos' absence still lay like a heavy swatch of velvet. He'd found his relief, but at what cost?

Duncan watched Blair search his pockets for his car keys, and he felt a funny sort of smile emerge onto his face.

He wondered how upset Methos would be if he postponed his untimely demise for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

"He talks in his sleep, you know."

"Who does?"

"Duncan."

"Oh," Jim said, "Ah." He looked around Sandburg to the television. Damn. He'd missed the play. He stared at the screen, waiting for the replay.

"He keeps talking to him."

"He? Him?" Jim glanced back to his partner, who was pacing the room, an air of agitation about him, then back to the tv, where the replay was just finishing. Damn!

"Duncan!" Sandburg paced over to the tv and turned it off. "I need you to listen to me for a second. I'm having an issue here."

"Issue," Jim dutifully repeated.

"Yes. An issue."

"That Duncan talks in his sleep and it keeps you up?"

Sandburg glared at him, eyes slitting closed. "Jim," he said and his voice was dangerously low.

Jim sighed. "Sorry, Chief. Go ahead." He settled onto his couch, and regretfully gave up the idea of watching the rest of the game. "He talks in his sleep?" he prodded.

"Yeah," Sandburg said. "About…about Adam, I think. Not by name, or anything. He…he mumbles."

Jim had to work hard to hide his grin. "Go on."

"That's it mostly." Sandburg blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. "I knew it would sound stupid. It is stupid. Just forget it." He turned.

Jim got off the couch and caught his friend's arm. "Hold on just a minute, there. Obviously it isn't stupid if it is bothering you. Now." He leveled his gaze at Sandburg. "What is it, really?"

Blair shook his head. "There aren't any pictures of Adam in the entire place."

Jim frowned. "Okay, that is bizarre. Have you asked him to see one? Maybe he's put them away so you won't feel like you've got to compete with a dead man."

Sandburg blanched. "No. That's not it." He paused, then admitted, "I looked." At Jim's hard look, he started pacing again. "I know. I know. Don't even say it. I invaded his privacy. But there's nothing, man. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not even a stray note, a card from the holidays. They were together for years, and Duncan bundles him lock, stock, and barrel into the dustbin as soon as he's gone and I come along? Pull the other one, I'm not buying."

"Sandburg--"

"Plus--" He started to warm up into his oration, the words spilling from him as if he'd already thought them a hundred times. "Plus, he won't talk to me about him. Oh sure, bland nonsense, useless things he'll mention if I push, but otherwise it's like Adam never really existed." Sandburg's voice hitched. "Except, at night, when he talks about him in his sleep. He talks to him. Like he's still alive. Like he's right there. Like he's on the phone with him."

"Blair," Jim tried again and this time his given name did slow the man down.

"I--"

"Listen to me. It's normal. His lover died in a tragic accident. There is no usual way of dealing with something like that. And now you're in his life, and it hasn't been that long. The grief process takes a long time. You know that."

"Yeah. It's just…."

"What?"

"I wish I knew what he looked like."

Jim clapped his hand lightly to Sandburg's shoulder. "I'll see what I can do."

~~~

It was three days before Jim had a chance to look into it at all, and mostly he had been putting it off. He really didn't want to get involved in the thing; relationships were tricky at the best of times, and to navigate one where a lover had died an untimely death…well, he gave Sandburg a lot of credit for even trying. But the longer he had put it off, the more he thought that perhaps Sandburg had good points. What kind of a man did hide all the photos of his previous lover? What kind of a man dreamt so often about him?

It had only been a few months since Blair and Duncan had met at a party, almost instantly touching off a round of fireworks that Jim had been able to see and hear from across the room even without the benefit of his Sentinel abilities. First blush of a new relationship was always the most exciting, but it was also the most dangerous. Entering into close proximity with someone meant there had to be a level of trust, and blind trust at that with a first time encounter.

NCIC hadn't pulled up much on Adam Pierson, a few runs ins here and there, nothing that netted anything more than an occasional footnote, and peripheral involvement, or something that was settled very quickly by lawyers. But Duncan MacLeod was a different matter. MacLeod had more than a few parking tickets in his time. There were notes on constant contact with law enforcement in recent years, a few arrests that were adjudicated out of court and without culpability on MacLeod's part, but Jim would say that the least of MacLeod's concerns was the man's chronic bad judgment when it came to parking. The whole thing raised Jim's hackles.

That wasn't the end of the story, though. It seemed Duncan MacLeod was a well known philanthropist of a very generous nature. His name came up linked to a bunch of charities, and although very rare, Jim was able to find an occasional photo of Mr. MacLeod in regulation charity tuxedo. Mostly they were blurry, distance shots, but he recognized the man.

In this particular arena, though, Mr. Adam Pierson was another matter. Finding a photo of him was as rare as hen's teeth. Eventually, though, Jim was able to pull up a poor quality photo from the DMV. In it, a beak-nosed man stared out, his hair too long and brushing into his eyes, ears slightly sticking out, expression something akin to a startled bird. He looked…young and altogether too gauche for the dashing MacLeod-about-town. Jim set the photo aside where he could glance at it and dug a little deeper.

He spent the rest of the day researching MacLeod's insurance policies, and unlucky Pierson's demise.

It was nothing he could put his finger upon, but a faint bellwether sound bonged inside him, letting him know that all was not as it seemed and turning his stomach sour.

Somewhere past dinnertime, Sandburg showed up, a bag gone translucent with oil spots in one hand. "Hey," he called, raising the bag. "I brought dinner." He dropped into the nearest chair. "When you weren't at home…. What *are* you doing here so late? I thought you weren't pulling double shifts anymore."

"I'm not."

Sandburg starting moving case files and paperwork so he could put the paper bag down on the desk. "Well, you could have fooled--" Sandburg stopped moving the papers, his fingers brushing lightly over the printed surface. "What's this?"

"Insurance papers. For Duncan MacLeod."

"What…what did you find?"

Jim pulled open the bag, and the strong scent of garlic and onions rolled over him. "Nothing." He pulled the steak-bomb sandwich out and set it aside. "All the policies are normal, paid up. They're fine."

"You, uh, seemed to have done a lot of work for 'fine'," Sandburg said, still skimming the paperwork, sounding slightly edgy. The oily sack sat off to the side, forgotten, and Jim moved it further away from the paperwork. Conversations of this nature were oft-best discussed on empty stomachs.

"I had to be sure," Jim said quietly. "I mean, his partner died suddenly, in a freak hiking accident. But he only had the barest, mandatory, minimum life insurance from his place of employment. The policy paid out, Duncan received it and immediately donated it to charity."

"He did?" Sandburg still stared at the papers in front of him, trance-like. "He never told me that."

"Yeah, well, he probably hasn't told you about the other five hundred k he's given away to charities this year, either."

Sandburg swallowed, and finally looked up from the paperwork. "What?"

"He's a really wealthy man." Jim waited until Sandburg gave him a little nod. He hadn't thought Sandburg had known exactly how wealthy MacLeod was, but Jim had hoped maybe he'd had just a little idea that he even was so well off. Obviously it was all news to Sandburg. "And I looked into Adam's accident. Duncan has a very solid alibi. He was miles away, in front of a lot of people, donating more money to yet another of his charities. You can't get any more solid than that." He paused and watched Sandburg's reaction before continuing. "By all accounts Adam's accident was exactly that. He slipped and fell down a dangerous ravine and it took a while for help to arrive, and a while before they were able to get down there. They never found him. The report indicated that a swift stream was present."

Sandburg blinked. "They never found him," he repeated, monotone. "No closure. No finality."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "It's rough."

Sandburg nodded slowly. "And you think that might explain why there aren't any photos? Why he talks in his sleep?" He blew a breath out. "Yeah. It might. I mean, what if he can't admit that Adam is gone? If he doesn't have to face the photos, have that constant reminder, maybe he can allow himself to imagine--"

"No," Jim interrupted. "I don't think that at all."

"Then what do you think?" The words were harsh, but then Jim knew that he'd just yanked away a very comfortable, solid explanation and substituted endless forlorn suspicion in its place. Harsh was a good reaction, really.

Jim started slowly, watching his friend as the words sank in. "A strange accident. A practically air-tight alibi. Makes a man wonder."

"No, it makes a cop wonder," Sandburg said bitterly.

"Maybe. All I know is that when I consider this whole thing, it just feels wrong. I can't put my finger on it, but it's there." Jim reached out and pushed a pile of papers forward. "Duncan's records. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. But a hell of a lot of weddings."

Sandburg studied the information, his expression becoming blanker every moment. He finally looked up at Jim, a hard set to his mouth and eyes. "This…."

"You need to talk to him, Blair," Jim said as gently as he could. "On the one hand he's a generous guy and obviously a humanitarian. A good man. He's got up-standing character references from here to China." He grabbed the sheaf of paperwork and raised it. "On the other, he's consistently finding himself in the thick of things. And Adam's no longer here to tell us what happened." He allowed his words to sink in. "Just…whatever you do. Be careful. He's probably not going to like being confronted by it."

"Yeah. I know."

"Yeah." Jim sighed. "In the meantime, here." Jim reached over and grabbed the printed picture of Adam and handed it over.

Sandburg took him from him. "Who's…."

"Adam. The photo is a little old, that's why he looks so young."

"Adam," Blair repeated solemnly, and Jim wondered what he was thinking as he stared at his predecessor.

~~~


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, Mister, need a ride?"

Duncan MacLeod turned on his heel, dropped his pack, and squinted through the windshield of the taxi.

The last vestiges of Presence fading away, Methos hopped out of the cab, and waved as he approached. "Hey, stranger."

"Methos," MacLeod said, voice low. "How the hell did you know--"

"--that you were coming?" Methos shrugged. "I always know."

MacLeod gave him a barely perceptible nod.

"Come on, MacLeod." Methos climbed back into the cab and waited for MacLeod to join him in the front before letting the cab inch forward. He cast a glance sideways. MacLeod looked good for a man who'd been on a plane for too many hours. Even his shadowed cheek and jowl looked good, kind of rough and tumble. Methos licked his lips.

"Your plastic shield is missing." MacLeod waved his hand in the space where the bullet proof plastic should have been, protecting driver and passenger from one another.

"I took it out."

"But what if--"

"I'll heal." Methos hopped out, then leaned down to speak through the open window. "And it makes it easier to talk to customers." He helped the next-in-line passenger stow the luggage in the trunk, and then came around. "Where to?" he asked.

"Star Hotel," the man replied, voice thick with accent.

Methos considered for a moment. "Star Hotel it is, then," he replied, switching to Italian.

The man looked pleasantly surprised. "You speak Italian?" he asked as he settled in the back.

"Oh, sure," Methos said as he drove, "this is a very cosmopolitan city. Lots of people speak a second, and sometimes a third or fourth language." Methos stepped on the gas, zipping the car along. It was not for nothing that cabbies around the world were known for their insane driving ways, who was he to disappoint the riders? He careened through the streets, switching lanes, passing a car, narrowly missing a bumper, and then switching back.

"Don't you think you should slow down?" MacLeod asked quietly. "There're only two of us in here that will walk away from a crash."

"That's fine, very fine." The passenger practically beamed at him, obviously missing MacLeod's remark. "I am here for a conference--design and production. I have heard it is a wonderful city to visit. Many good places to eat. Beautiful places to visit. Do you have any suggestions?"

"Depends what kind of food you'd like. Indian? Chinese?" Methos called over his shoulder, barely keeping one eye on the road. "Italian?"

The passenger laughed. "No, no. Italian next week, when I go back home."

Methos rattled off a few of his favorite restaurants for the man, and wondered if MacLeod was listening. Ah, well, he could repeat them again later.

"This is the place," Methos said brightly and pulled up in front of the receiving area of the hotel. One of the uniformed doormen came over to help with the luggage.

"Have fun with your conference," MacLeod called to him, also in Italian, as the man exited the cab and Methos just grinned at the stunned look on the man's face.

"How lucky I was to take your cab!" the man exclaimed as he paid for the ride, and then generously gifted Methos.

"Thank you," Methos said, "I hope I am able to take you back to the airport when you leave." He climbed back into the cab.

"You make out like a bandit, don't you?" MacLeod remarked as he got back into the car.

"It pays to know a couple dozen languages or so. Makes people feel like traveling isn't so strange after all. Also, giving directions is a lot easier." Methos merged back into traffic. "It’s the perfect job for a linguist, really." He started whistling.

MacLeod rolled his eyes. "Where are we headed now? More fares?"

Methos shot him a glance. "I thought I'd take you home."

"You don't have to work?"

"I'm my own boss. I own the cab."

"Good, then."

Methos drove them to his home, an apartment very near the business district. He parked in the space allotted. "Costs me a fair bit for the spot. The apartment is economical by comparison." He unlocked the door. "I thought that when you came here to live we'd go house hunting together."

MacLeod looked a bit perplexed by that. "I--"

"If you came here," Methos amended. He locked the door behind them. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Duncan," Methos said softly, "you told me about Blair. Frankly, I'm surprised you're here at all." He wandered into the kitchen. He'd missed lunch while he'd been waiting for MacLeod's plane to touch down; he was pretty sure there were cold meats in the dark recess of the fridge somewhere.

"Methos, that's not why I came here. I wanted to talk to you about him."

Methos frowned. "I'm not a happy celibate, MacLeod. I am not going to wait fifty years for your new beau to pass on."

MacLeod chuckled. "Not what I had in mind." He came into the kitchen and pressed Methos up against the counter.

"What exactly did you have in mind?" Methos asked suspiciously.

MacLeod didn't deign to reply, just continued pressing forward until they were kissing roughly, his teeth scraping against Methos' bottom lip. Methos rubbed his cheek against MacLeod's until his skin felt raw, catching his breath before turning back into the kiss. Methos bit back, not too hard, just enough, and he tasted the sharp tang of blood. It only increased MacLeod's fervor, and he pushed Methos up harder against the counter until Methos had to hop up or risk being crushed. The salt cellar, sugar bowl, and pepper grinder went flying, crashing only god-knew-where, and the air became pungent with spilt spices. MacLeod's arms encircled him, changing tactics, instead of pressing now he was pulling and grasping, his hands kneading at Methos' muscles.

The edge of the counter was cutting into the backs of his knees, and still MacLeod didn't let up. He shifted his mouth away to Methos' neck, licking and nipping, and Methos was pretty sure his back would throw out at any moment from the stress of holding himself. He would not move, dammit, it felt too good, and had been so long. Then, MacLeod was pulling him forward all in a rush and they both toppled to the ground in an agony of elbows and bruised ribs, and somehow MacLeod managed to land on top.

Grinding himself against Methos, he pushed with his hands at Methos' shoulders, and swooped down for another devouring kiss. Grit of some kind pressed against Methos' head, the crunching sound so close it felt like it was within his head, like maracas set against the bass drum of his heart.

They writhed together on the floor, amidst the sugar and the salt, and Methos licked pepper from his fingers before pressing them against MacLeod's mouth. Peppercorns rattled past his head, and he picked one up and bit down on it. The tip of his tongue burned so he shared the fire with MacLeod until they both burst into flames on the linoleum floor, and then finally lay there, quenched and doused.

Afterwards, they drank the fine bottle of white wine that Methos had been chilling. The tang of pepper rinsed away, Methos lazily drew half remembered symbols in the scattered sugar on the floor. He kissed MacLeod again, languidly, not stirring up anything, just savoring the taste, and drew a happy face in the salt.

"You want to bring him here?" he asked.

"If you'll let me. Say yes."

Methos sighed. "Yes."

~~~


	4. Chapter 4

Vacation. It's a vacation, Blair reminded himself. With the man I love, I'm on a vacation, and it's all going to be fine. Fun.

Still, Jim's concerns were still ringing in his ears--going to another country with a man whose past was *shady* and who already had one dead lover to his account? It was all Blair could do to keep Jim from buying a ticket and riding shotgun the entire trip. Still…something wasn't right.

Duncan was acting well controlled: pleasant enough and considerate, but something lurked behind his bland smile. Of course, they'd had the entire long flight to discuss it, but every time Blair had approached the topic, Duncan had diverted him. "When we're on the ground," Duncan had requested. "It'll be easier to talk when we've arrived."

Blair had studied his lover aboard the plane. They'd been together for over six months now, and they'd been pretty glorious months. Blair couldn't remember a time he'd felt so well received, so loved, so completely enveloped. In addition to being the guy that turned everyone's heads, Duncan was articulate, intelligent, and thoughtful. Blair would have pinched himself to make sure it wasn't a dream except if it was, he didn't want to wake up.

But everything was not all daisy-chains and summer-love-knots. He thought again of the dark suspicions Jim harbored and that Blair hadn't been able to easily wipe away. In fact, that had been the causation of this whole vacation affair. He could see the event sequence clearly: Jim voices concerns, Blair tries to talk to Duncan, Duncan takes Blair on vacation.

So, why had he agreed?

Because Duncan had promised that he'd explain everything. No more vague answers, no more cryptic responses.

Blair longed to get the photo from his wallet and look it over again, although the wide eyed man was already lodged in his memory. Adam Pierson. Missing, presumed dead. Gone. He'd tried to talk to Duncan about Adam, but each time had been stranger and more confusing than the last, as if Adam's specter had tied them both up in knots.

This vacation held a tight kernel of hope for him--not only a chance at relaxation, but also a way to spend some serious time with Duncan. It had been too good an opportunity to pass up. He was going to miss Jim, but it was only going to be three weeks--Jim could take care of himself nowadays. He'd reigned in control of his Sentinel abilities amazingly, although Blair couldn't help but wonder what Jim would do next. Mandatory retirement loomed close. Cascade had the usual law enforcement personnel policies, and between Jim's military years and his time with the force, well….

Blair realized that they had finally landed. Well, then, they'd arrived.

Perhaps walking out of the airport wasn't the best place to start the conversation, but Blair's mantra of "vacation, vacation, vacation" had gone sour. "Duncan--" he started, when next to him Duncan stiffened and began to look in earnest at the crowd on the sidewalk, at the taxi cabs, before he relaxed and smiled.

Blair followed his gaze and…the world lurched.

A face known only from a poor photograph grinned at him.


End file.
